Inwardly Renewed
by MostDismalFeldsparkle
Summary: Smutty pollen dooms everyone. No, really.
1. Prologue

_**Content note: contains *ahem* adult themes, dark themes, discussion of death, and Australian Grade swearing**_

 _ **Prologue**_

The end of the Vulcan species was caused by a flower, and it was T'Pol, daughter of T'Les that found it.

 _Unlucky_ , future galactic historians declared her.

 _A tragic figure_! T'Pol experts would then enthuse, nodding their heads emphatically, for T'Pol, and her equally unlucky human lover tended to attract experts of a particular, romantic temperament.

In fact, as the documents clearly showed, T'Pol made _two_ fateful decisions that day.

Had she selected any other of the proposed landing sites she would have passed uneventfully from history, for the flower grew in just one small region, an ancient riverbed full of plate sized stones and mossy crevasses, and the planetoid was of little interest, and might never have been visited by a Vulcan again.

And most agreed that it was _this_ decision was the fateful one, because it hardly seemed fair to blame the woman for anything that followed the moment when the fragrance first hit her nostrils.

Consequently, much ink was spilled for why she picked _that_ site, rather than another or another.

Often, T'Pol experts – who, as mentioned, tended to be of a romantic sort – would trot out their favourite theory about T'Pol's father and insist that the fatal site somehow called to her , somehow took advantage of her duel nature.

There was no evidence, of course, that T'Pol's father had been Romulan - and T'Les scholars tended to be an especially romantic subset of T'Pol scholars! – but the theory was both popular and delightful.

After all, T'Pol had been such a marvelous boon for the Romulan Empire.


	2. Trip

_**Trip**_

Later, Trip would spend a great deal of time trying to recall what was said at the mission briefing. T'Pol had, no doubt, offered a detailed explanation for why she selected the landing site which doomed the alpha quadrant. By that time, he had little else to do but think, and think he did, ruminating on this conversation obsessively, refining the script, endlessly reconstructing the words and movements of his long dead friends.

At the time though he's scarcely paid attention, had never noticed his life changing around him.

* * *

"Trip?"

"Hmm..?"

"The shuttle thrusters?" Malcolm was looking at him expectantly.

When Trip had mentally checked out of the conversation, it had been about begonias. He adopted a posture of deep thought even as he scanned the conference table for clues. After a few seconds, a display of fierce stratospheric winds caught his eye and he took a punt. "Well, the thrusters SHOULD be able to handle the winds, although we'll need to navigate carefully around major updrafts, and if we did hit one, then we could get an overload and would have to do a mid-flight repair and… maybe I SHOULD go on this thing actually."

Malcolm scowled as the slightly impish expression of the captain fell back upon him, following Trip's words. "Well fine. Given Commander Tucker's abrupt change of heart, that would be….err…. we'd have Commander T'Pol, Commander Tucker too, apparently, we'd still need Lieutenant Mayweather, but Lieutenant Hess could stay in engineering, which would mean that we could move Lieutenant Huang back to the deflector maintenance, so Ensign Moretti could stay on gamma shift, meaning she could supervise the MACO drills, meaning we could move those back to the middle of the night, meaning that Major McKenna could go on the mission after all. So that would make the away team… both Commanders, Lieutenant Mayweather, Major McKenna, whoever T'Pol wants from exobiology…"

"Crewman Estrada."

"Major McKenzie, Crewman Estrada…. and…Oh!" Malcolm broke off, suddenly brightening. "I suppose you wouldn't need me then, would you? I could stay here and realign the targeting scanners."

"Wonderful!" Archer replied dryly. "Everybody happy with that? Finally?"

"But if Lieutenant Reed isn't going, who will save us if it turns out that the vines are sentient, and the roses are evil, and the pond scum is part of an ancient omnipresent consciousness that looks down on us like we might look down upon an amoeba?" Travis asked in a competent enough deadpan to send Hoshi into a very unconvincing coughing fit.

"Major McKenzie," Malcolm replied coolly. "I will ensure she is equipped with the very best gardening shears available."

"That satisfy you, Travis?" Archer asked, already turning to leave.

"If it helps, Lieutenant Mayweather, we will be landing several kilometres from the nearest pond," T'Pol offered abruptly. "It is reasonable to hope we would avoid the attention of the pond weed consciousness."

"And let's leave things there," Archer replied firmly, before the twinkle in Travis's eye could become a meeting-prolonging response. "And can I just say? Whoever schedules the next four hour meeting about a trip to plant-world, schedule it somewhere with chairs. I'm not getting any younger. Now go collect daisy-chains, or fix targeting scanners, or whatever the hell we all just agreed to."

Trip made sure to catch Malcolm before he disappeared. "Hey, I'm sorry about the away team personnel thing. Who knew one little change would have so many knock on effects?"

"Well, _you_ wouldn't, apparently," Malcolm replied, although he his tone was quite sanguine given his own reprieve. "No matter. Given how Lieutenant Hess will react when I tell her you didn't trust her to do a mid-flight thruster repair, that will be punishment enough."

"Oh don't tell her that!" Trip replied aghast. "That's not the reason."

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. "It had better be the reason! Because if I have to instead tell her you rearranged the day of half the crew so you could visit a pretty garden with your sweetie…"

"T'Pol's not…. Don't call her that. We aren't… It's not… The thing about that is… we're just friends."

"Oh, I see. Just friends, are you? Well, that's me convinced, then. How could I have got things so wrong?"

Trip scowled.

* * *

It turned out the thrusters were more than a match for the stratospheric winds, or perhaps it was Travis that was more than a match for it. The pilot ably navigated the gusts and eddies with more skill than a man who learned to fly in space should reasonably have, until the boxy, un-aerodymanic little pod dropped into the mild air currents closer to the surface.

Deprived of the turbulence the away team's attention was turned to the glossy green landscape rolled out beneath them.

"It looks like home," McKenzie murmured softly.

"Where you from, McKenzie?"

"Kentucky," she answered Trip, as casually as she was asked, her enchantment with the landscape apparently distracting her from her habitual aloof formality.

"Really?" Trip mused in reply, mostly to ensure she knew he was not bothered by the lapse in protocol. "You don't sound it."

She smiled, but did not look at him. "Army brat. Moved around a lot. But Kentucky mean _home_ , you know? Every blade of grass that's not Kentucky bluegrass is just the wrong color."

"Suppose I'm partial to Bahia grass," Trip answered. "Think that's what it's called anyway."

"What is with you people having favourite _grasses_?" Travis called back from the pilot seat. " Bunch of Landlubbers!"

"I wouldn't say that in front of Estrada," Trip called back. "She's an agronomist. What sort of grass do they have where you are from, Estrada?"

Estrada smiled. "Oh, I've no idea sir."

"Didn't we _just_ decide you are an agronomist?"

"Oh I am! But when I'm in New York I don't pay any attention to the grass."

McKenzie smiled. "Fair enough. What about you, Commander T'Pol? What's pasture like on Vulcan."

T'Pol frowned mildly. "Vulcan is an arid planet, with a large population who are vegetarian. We have little need of pasture and do not indulge in…lawns."

"Couldn't pay me to live there, then," McKenzie replied. "There's nothing like running barefoot on grass…"

"… or the smell of the grass after it rains…"

" _No_! The smell of freshly cut grass…"

"You're all mad!" Travis exclaimed. "I realise this mission is not exactly riveting, but have you really all developed botanical Stokholm syndrome already? Stop talking like grass is interesting! Help me out here, T'Pol."

T'Pol shrugged. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Lieutenant Maywether. Humans are typically maudlin and fixated on unimportant details. I see no cause for alarm. You are _all_ like this, _all_ the time."

Travis groaned theatrically. "Take pity on me, Commander! I'm not even done with my bit and I'm already bored. This mission is so boring. It's like…"

"…watching the grass grow?"

Travis groaned louder. "I swear, if one more person says the word grass, I'm going to turn this pod around and NOBODY gets their posies."

Trip snorted. "Alright, settle down Travis. Isn't that the landing site?"

"I'm doing it, I'm doing it." Travis grumbled. "Sooner we get there, the sooner we can leave, I suppose."

"That's the spirit!"

After a textbook touchdown, and the appropriate scans, the Trip opened the pod at T'Pol's order and, with McKenzie and Estrada, they stepped out into the alien green of a large clearing.

For a few seconds, perhaps a minute, the air was still, and Trip spent that minute admiring how the alien sun tossed up a few red highlights in T'Pol's hair, how the planes of her face looked against an alien sky, how she stood with such supple poise in the alien gravity, how…

And then the breeze picked up, and she stiffened.

"That smell!" she murmured.

Trip frowned, "What smell?" although he did not quite have the words out before he too caught a scent in the alien air. It was not unpleasant, but not extraordinary either. Cinnamon, perhaps, or ginger. Something. He was about to say as much, when he noticed that T'Pol was already moving, picking her way across the landscape, with care, yes, but with purpose, her nose inclined slightly towards the sky.

Barely registering the look of surprise on Estrada's face, Trip followed T'Pol, not managing the landscape quite so gracefully as she, struggling slightly to keep pace.

But they did not need to go far.

"There!", T'Pol whispered. "Do you see?"

She was indicating the nearest of a number of small plants which occupied the gully. Spiny, silvery green foliage, each topped with a single spray of large red and yellow flowers.

"Pretty," Trip replied vaguely, well aware he did not know an interesting alien plant from an uninteresting one.

"Glorious," T'Pol replied fervently. She knelt then, before the plant, and gently cupped the nearest flower with her hands, before gently lowering her face towards it, and inhaling.

"Erm…T'Pol? Are you sure you should be doing that?" Trip asked, then, feeling a slight disquiet. "Alien pollen hasn't always been lucky for us in the past and…"

He trailed off abruptly when T'Pol swung to face him. There was something in her eyes. She stood, taking care not to damage the flower and closed the distance between them. Moving close, just subtly too close.

Trip intended to take a step backwards, but the gesture stalled at intention and he did not move at all.

"Very little has been lucky for us," T'Pol said, standing close enough that he could feel the heat of her breath on his neck. "But that will change now."

"Glad to… hear it?" Trip replied, now very aware of how close Estrada and McKenzie might be. "This sounds like a conversation we should definitely have. But maybe….ya'know…back on Enterprise?"

T'Pol smiled like a thunderbolt. "Yes. You are wise. So much wiser than you seem. There is important work to do first. Ensign Estrada?"

"Yes, Commander?" Estrada appeared almost immediately.

She MUST have been close, Trip realised uncomfortably.

"This is what we want. This plant," T'Pol said to her subordinate. "How many iso-terrariums did we bring with us?"

Estrada frowned. "Fifteen, Commander."

"Fifteen specimens will not be sufficient. Please place two specimens in each. "

"All of the SAME plant?" Estrada replied, baffled. "Commander, am I missing something? The mission plan is to gather representative survey of the advanced botanical life…"

"The mission has changed. Please do as I ask," T'Pol replied firmly. "Except for this plant Ensign. This one is special. To not pack it with a partner, and take particular care with it. You should then gather the 28 plants closest to it. And please measure precisely."

"Commander, with respect, just gathering one plant considerably limits what we will learn about the biota of this planet," Estrada replied softly, flicking her eyes towards Trip as if trying to recruit his support. "I mean, we've taken Enterprise, a state of the art starship, a quarter of a lightyear out of her way, sent down a five person away team and you want to occupy 15 state of the art iso-terrariums with 29 specimens of the same plant? Let alone 29 likely closely related specimens of the same plant?"

"Yes."

"But, that doesn't make any…"

"You have your orders, Ensign."

Estrada's eyes flicked toward Trip, but he could only shrug.

T'Pol's the boss, kid, he thought. And although it sounded to him like Estrada might have had a point, he had no intention of picking a fight with her now.

* * *

It took Estrada nearly four hours to gather the specimens with the care that T'Pol, hovering over her shoulder demanded.

Trip and McKenzie had a much easier day of it, with little to do but bask in the gentle sunlight, chatting between periodic checks that the scanners were doing their work.

"This sun is amazing," McKenzie purred. "I could sit on this rock for hours."

"You probably could," Trip agreed lightly. "Low UV index."

" _Low UV index?_ ' McKenzie replied laughing.

Trip shrugged. "You've got pretty skin, is all. You should think about these things, McKenzie."

McKenzie laughed again, seeming to toss her blonde ponytail a little more than was strictly necessary while doing so. "You can call me Jacey, you know, if you want."

"I thought you went by Mac?"

McKenzie chuckled again, and this time both her ponytail and her breasts seemed to bounce of their own accord. "Oh, the boys call me Mac, that's true. But you can call me Jacey."

Trip smiled. "Well, I will keep that in mind, Jacey."

T'Pol came over just then, cradling one of the iso-terrariums in her arms. "We will be ready to depart shortly. Lieutenant Mayweather and Ensign Estrada are just packing the last of the terrariums now."

"Apart from that one, presumably," Trip said, pointing at the one she was holding. He thought he saw her grip tighten slightly when he did.

"This one stays with me."

* * *

Back on Enterprise, Phlox did not delay them with the decon chamber. "All the scans are clear Commander," Phlox said pleasantly, apparently not noticing that this news was greeted by far more disappointment than was usual.

T'Pol nodded briefly before immediately turning her attention to the terrariums, but some impulse made Trip pull the doctor aside.

"Doctor, those plants," Trip said, not quite sure where to begin.

"Hmm, pretty aren't they?" Phlox replied lightly. "And quite the aroma! Quite takes me back to my medical school days."

"yeah…" Trip agreed. "Smells kind of like Christmas. Anyway… there's nothing WRONG with them, is there?"

Phlox frowned. "Wrong with them? Whatever do you mean?"

"Nothing… psychoactive? That smell, for example?"

"Well…all stimulae have SOME effect on the brain, Commander," Phlox answered. "Or else we couldn't perceive them. However, I notice nothing unusual about the biochemistry of these plants. Why do you ask? Have you observed any abnormal behaviour?"

"N…no," Trip replied. "It's just… Estrada said that the plan was to collect a whole bunch of different plants, but T'Pol only collected these. She…fixated on them almost immediately."

Phlox shrugged. "Well, I wouldn't worry. You know scientists. No doubt these plants have some little quirk that tickles her fancy. I'd let Estrada and T'Pol sought it out between themselves, hmm?"

* * *

Later that evening, Trip figured that T'Pol and Estrada must have sorted it out among themselves, because Estrada was quite red of face and did not make eye contact when she pushed past him just as he answered T'Pol's summons to her quarters.

T'Pol herself was breathing heavily when she answered her door.

"Bit of a shouting match, was it?" Trip said mildly, a little distracted by the fetching flash of colour in T'Pol's cheeks. "Well, you know these subject matter experts…"

"I do," T'Pol replied in a low, warm voice. "And now I need your help on a slightly different subject."

She moved backwards into her quarters, and Trip followed in step as if they were tethered.

The light of the room was low and warm, and Trip was not very surprised to see one of the alien plants set on a low table.

"Shouldn't that thing be in a lab," Trip asked, his voice taking on the mood of the room, seemingly of its own accord.

"It is perfectly safe," T'Pol said. "You should not be afraid."

"Well, I never said I was a…" The rest of the sentence was lost in a gasp as Trip found himself pushed into the bulkhead and pinned with force. T'Pol was so diminutive in figure that he generally found it all but impossible to remember what a physical threat she was, but now, with her fingernails digging in to forearms and driving his elbows into the walls behind him, he was very nearly immobilised.

"Hey, now, be gentle," he chuckled weakly.

T'Pol released his left forearm, but instead roughly grabbed a handful of his hair. "No."

"I thought you asked me here to talk."

T'Pol's lip curled. "Talking would be an unacceptably poor use of the available resources." She kissed him then. It was aggressive enough to be slightly unpleasant but also maddeningly arousing. Her fingers twisted painfully in his hair

"T'Pol, I'm not so much into the pain thing, " Trip smiled shakily.

"You will learn," T'Pol growled in reply, twisting harder and releasing in order to tear open the fabric of his shirt. Trip barely had time to consider the "aw, shucks" conversation the torn garment would require with the quartermaster, when, without warning, T'Pol sank her teeth into the flesh of his chest.

Too surprised to protest, Trip watched instead as she rubbed her face into the resultant beads of blood.

"Red," she murmured thickly, before locking eyes with him. "Do something," she demanded.

Taking T'Pol's enthusiasm into account, Trip skipped over a few of his customary steps and reached straight between her legs. There, he encountered what was definitely only one thin layer of fabric. Moist fabric.

Recalling that her strong bones made her much heavier than she looked, Trip took advantage of her resulting lapse in attention to spin them around and make use of the wall when he lifted from her using the arm between her legs, letting as much of her weight as he could take dangle on his forearm.

T'Pol keened at the pressure and her eyes slid shut.

Trip grabbed her lower lip between his teeth and sucked savagely, even as he reached for the zipper behind her back. Her breasts were contained by nothing but her thin suit but were freed only seconds before being captured one by Trip's free hand and the other with his lips and teeth.

T'Pol wailed in pain and desire, but with her toes dangling free of the floor, her superior strength was largely demobilised, so she had only the force of her voice with which to order Trip to her bed.

He obliged. Eventually.


	3. Estrada

_Estrada_

The night before her execution, Paola Estrada barely slept. She'd thought she'd made her peace, thought she'd be glad. It had certainly felt that way when they'd started taking the others. First Mweke, then Leielle, then Tonde, then Fwek. She supposed it made a certain sense that she would be last, that she would suffer most. After all, she was one of a precious few that might have prevented this if she'd somehow known what those flowers were. If she'd set them on fire the moment she'd seen them.

She imagined that sometimes. Burning out the whole gully, watching the flames. Imagined grabbing the controls from Mayweather and ploughing the loaded shuttle into a mountain. Imagined shutting down the antimatter containment and burning Enterprise before it ever got to Vulcan with those flowers.

On this last night though, she mainly imagined that she had taken that Romulan Commander up on his bargain. It felt like far less than a fate worse than death now that she was actually about to die.

* * *

Paola carefully picked the alien dirt from under her finger nails as Commander T'Pol triple-checked that Paola had loaded the terrariums correctly. Her occupation with the task allowed her to keep her irritation in check. She was an eminent biologist, she certainly didn't need a Vulcan nanny looking over her shoulder while she unearthed root systems and packed terrariums.

Particularly, a Vulcan who apparently knew nothing about exo-botany. Or any kind of botany. Still, it was up to Starfleet's science division to rap T'Pol over the knuckles for her harebrained one-plant-sampling-policy. Or rap Archer's knuckles, who in turn would rap T'Pol's knuckles.

Either way, Paola had fingernails to clean.

Catching a movement out of the corner of her eye, Paola looked up through her eyelashes at Travis Mayweather. Men were definitely NOT her ball of wax… but – and maybe it was all the thinking about knuckles – Travis Mayweather certainly had a particularly beautiful set of hands.

Talented hands, she caught herself thinking idly as she watched the man pilot them back to Enterprise. Talent fingers. Long. Nimble. Talented. Fingers.

Yikes. She had sex on the brain.

Still, after spending the day less than a stone's throw from Jacey McKenzie lounging on a sunlit rock, what could one expect really?

* * *

After Phlox delivered the disappointing news that she would not get the opportunity to spend any time watching McKenzie lounging in decon, Paola made a bee-line for a cold shower. Which became a warm shower. Which became a long warm shower.

When she finally emerged, towel drying her long dark hair and more frustrated than ever by the disproportionately few women on Enterprise, she noticed, with irritation a summons to Commander T'Pol's quarters.

Could be an apology I suppose, Paola thought wryly. I mean, this is space. Weird things happen in space.

Noting then that the time stamp was from nearly forty minutes ago, Paola quickly pulled on a uniform. Unfortunately, she had not dried herself well before hand and therefore her uniform was a little more clingy than usual.

Not that Commander T'Pol would notice, Paola thought dryly. Straight as an arrow that one. Just like every other damn woman on this ship.

The Commander opened the door alarmingly fast after Paola rang the buzzer – presumably a commentary on Paola's late arrival – and worse still, apparently did notice the slight dampness of Paola's uniform, because her eyes moved very slowly up and down Paola's figure.

"I'm sorry I'm late, Commander," Paola began hesitantly. "I had stepped in the shower and only got your message…"

"The delay was most inconvenient," T'Pol said sharply. "Now please come in without further delay."

Paola had never been in any of the senior officers quarters, but she had heard on the grapevine that T'Pol's were nicer than most. She took in the lush furnishings and the strangely warm quality of the light. Then her eyes fell on the plant.

"Commander!" she exclaimed, then instantly regretted it. She was in enough trouble as it was.

T'Pol took a step closer to her.

A step too close, Paola noted with surprise. She'd certainly never had any personal space problems with a Vulcan before! Paola took a step back, but her heel connected with the bulkhead after no more than half her usual stride. Pressing entirely against the wall would have been undignified, so Paola split the difference shuffling back slightly.

T'Pol smiled a small knowing smile. And leaned forward. "I saw your face when Phlox did not order us into decon upon arrival. Did you disagree with his decision, Ensign?"

Paola swallowed. "I… the scans were all clear. The doctor swallowed…FOLLOWED protocol. Followed protocol."

T'Pol's smile grew a little. "Then perhaps you were just disappointed."

Paola's breath caught and she stared at the ceiling in embarrassment. Being reamed out for questioning orders while slightly damp would have been bad enough – but being reamed out for sexually harassing a MACO… she could scarcely bear to…

"You're uncomfortable," Commander T'Pol interrupted her thoughts silkily. "Perhaps this will help."

Paola's eyes were very rapidly pulled from the ceiling as T'Pol gracefully shimmied out of her flowing robes and stood – unbearably close- in only small Starfleet issue briefs.

Traitorous warmth shot through Paola. Unsure where to look she eventually fixed her brimming eyes on a spot 2 inches over T'Pol's left shoulder.

T'Pol was not pleased. "Look at me."

Paola did.

T'Pol raised her hand to Paola's face, touching her finger tips to Paola's forehead.

Paola lurched slightly as some very specific – very explicit – images raced through her minds. She heard T'Pol chuckle in a low smooth voice… as if she had _seen_!

"That's good," T'Pol purred. "Reluctance would be highly regrettable. You questioned by authority and must make amends to me, but I do not wish for it to be unpleasant."

Paola was breathing faster now, and she saw T'Pol was as well. Breathing in synchrony with her. Paola's hand twitched. She longed to touch T'Pol's skin, her waist, her neck, her beautiful breasts.

"You will kneel," T'Pol said sharply. "I will permit you to touch my inner thighs with your tongue. But ONLY my thighs."

Paola sucked in a breath, and when T'Pol stepped out of her briefs and widened her legs, she felt a single tear fall down her cheek.

T'Pol frowned, and returned her hand to Paola's forehead. The images – now clearly showing Paola and T'Pol engaged in the former's darkest desires – leapt growling to the forefront of Paola's brain.

With a satisfied smile, T'Pol pressed firmly on Paola's shoulders and Paola bent to her knees.

Minutes, or hours, Paola couldn't tell, she only knew that her jaw ached, her tongue ached, and the sweetest fruit in the universe was being held just out of reach. A hundred times she almost broke the rule, but she wouldn't dare, didn't dare and then….

"Stop! He's coming," T'Pol called sharply, and Paola obeyed.

"Stand up," T'Pol said, bending elegantly to recover her robe and briefs from the floor.

Paola stared into her eyes, desperate with need. "Don't make me leave," she whispered. "Please."

T'Pol pursed her lips in slight displeasure. "Open your mouth," she said sharply.

The moment Paola did open her mouth, she found them filled with T'Pol's fingers and T'Pol's briefs.

 _Oh god. The taste!_

"You will keep them in your mouth until you get back to your quarters," T'Pol ordered firmly. "Now go."

Shaking slightly, Paola did, having to push past the arriving Commander Tucker to make her exit. Even this brief touch made desire surge through her again like a rip tide, and she all but ran the distance back to her quarters. The moment she was through her door she ripped T'Pol's briefs from her mouth, and threw them to the floor.

A moment later she wanted them back.

More frustrated tears fell and she reached for them, but even as her fingers brushed the soft fabric, her door buzzer rang. Paola squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and then, after thrusting T'Pol's briefs under her pillow she opened the door.

Jacey McKenzie - stormy eyed - was on the other side. "I saw you watching me today," she said.

Paola burst into tears.

Jacey's face softened. "Look," she said awkwardly. "I'm not really… I mean I don't like girls… but, I'm pretty revved up tonight, and…well… in the dark a tongue is a tongue, right? I don't think I'm up for reciprocating, but you know… if you want you could…?"

Paola looked at the floor, took a deep breath, and decided. "All right. I guess I can live with that. Do you mind though if I… take care of myself? While I'm at it?"

Jacey shrugged. "I guess. As long as you turn out the light."

* * *

"So it _IS_ unusual then?" Archer asked expectantly.

He'd pulled Paola aside at movie night, a report from Starfleet's scientific directory in his hand. It was clear, though, not a minute into the conversation that Archer's only concern for T'Pol's well-being, and he didn't give a toss about any scientific opportunities that might have been wasted.

"Yes," Paola confirmed. "A little. I mean, to only study one species, and to deliberately take ones growing close together? It's a little bizarre."

Archer frowned. "Yeah, I don't get why everybody is so fixated on that. What's the difference?"

"Well, sir… the closer plants grow to each other, the more likely they are to be closely genetically related. I mean don't get me wrong, plant genetic material can travel a long way, even on a planet without animal species to act as pollinators… so even taking plants far apart you might get unlucky. But to deliberately sample plants close together? It doesn't make any sense. Unless…"

"Unless?" Archer prodded, when Paola trailed off.

Paola sighed. "Well, I don't really like to say, sir. She IS a superior officer."

Archer frowned. "Speak freely."

Paola took a breath. "Well, sir, you know how T'Pol is insisting we take the plants to Vulcan? Is insisting that they will be found to be of enormous scientific merit on Vulcan? Well, sir… I've seen communications from the Vulcan Science Directorate. They… they've seen this mission report and they are as baffled by T'Pol's interest in this particular species as Earth's Science Directorate. And as for her methodology… you want variation when you are studying something scientifically… you only want identical specimens when you want to MARKET something."

"You think T'Pol wants to go into the flower business?" Archer asked, taking an incredulous step backwards.

Paola squirmed but continued. "She's VERY taken with that flower, sir. Maybe she thinks other Vulcans will be too? You know she has one in her quarters, right? Against regulations."

"Yes," Archer frowned. "I know. Still this is quite an accusation."

"To be clear, sir, you asked me," Paola replied firmly. "I'm not making an accusation. But... well… yesterday I saw Commander T'Pol comparing the plant's DNA sequence to another sequence and…"

"That sounds normal enough," Archer interrupted sharply.

"Yes, it would be normal to compare it to other plant species. And when she left the lab I… well I checked what sequence she was comparing it to. I was curious. I thought I might be able to figure out what the hell she sees in this plant, you know? But the sequence wasn't another DNA sequence."

"What was it."

"It looked like gibberish DNA at first, but then I realised it was a text translated into base four to look like a DNA sequence. "

"A text?"

Paola nodded. "Some Vulcan thing called kir'shara? Something like that? I can't read high Vulcan so I don't know what it said but…"

"Kir'shara?" Archer asked. "You're sure?" But he wondered off thoughtfully before Paola could really reply.

Shrugging, Paola made her way to the mess hall and looked for a seat for movie night. As expected Jacey was sitting with the other MACOs. Her friends. Her friends who had no idea that Jacey came to Paola Estrada's quarters every night. That she came IN Paola Estrada's quarters every night.

Paola offered Jacey a small, hopeful smile, but Jacey's glance slid off her as if she was not even there.


	4. Malcolm

**_Malcolm_**

Malcolm knew full well that these were the last moments of his life. This wasn't Themopylae. They were heavily outnumbered and about the best they could expect was to die quickly.

He did a rapid head count and noticed Hoshi was missing. Crying by Travis's deathbed, presumably. Technically speaking he should probably go down there, drag her away and press a phase rifle into her hand.

 _What was the bloody point though? They were all dead either way._

"Cheer up, everyone," he said softly, mostly to himself. "It could be worse."

Beside him, Mac raised an eyebrow. "At least it's not raining?"

* * *

"So, and let me make sure I have this straight. After going a quarter of a light year out of our way, to visit a planet with only plant life, and only collecting specimens of a single species, we are now going to go 10 light years out of our way to personally deliver the plants to Vulcan?"

"Yep," Trip shrugged, chewing thoughtfully on some halibut.

" _WHY_?" Malcolm glowered, risotto abandoned. "What are they? Ambrosia flowers? Do they cure baldness? Taste like chicken? What _IS IT_?"

"Dunno."

"No really, tell me! If I'd wanted to make a living delivering flowers I could have done that on Earth. There was precious little need for years of deep space training. I could just have popped down to the local florist on my bicycle."

Trip shrugged. "You really think a florist would hire you? For funeral deliveries, maybe. You'd be good at that. Bicycle and all."

"Oh, do fall out an airlock, won't you Trip?", Malcolm replied darkly. "Although, I must say, you don't look half tired."

Trip smiled ruefully. "T'Pol is keeping me up nights."

"Oh well, don't rub it in!"

"Oh trust me, I'm not," Trip replied with a sigh. "I've never been much of a believer in too-much-of-a-good-thing, but if this pace keeps up I may be a late convert."

"A late convert to believing you can have too much of a good thing?"

"A late convert to a monastery."

Malcolm scoffed. "Oh cry me a river. It can't be that bad."

Trip shook his head. "Sometimes I wonder if I died, and went to hell, and this is my ironic punishment. Perpetually not quite satisfying T'Pol."

"Well, that would be top notch irony, I suppose," Malcolm mused. "Say, it's not a Ponn-Farr type of thing, is it?"

"Phlox says no," Trip answered with a sigh.

"Well maybe he could…."

"And that he'd like to write a paper. And that he'd like us to go at it in the imaging chamber."

Malcolm shuddered dramatically. "Out of the question. I have to use that thing occasionally."

Trip scowled. "I would have thought he'd clean it afterwards."

"There's not enough bleach in the galaxy."

* * *

After eating, Malcolm made his way to his quarters, entering without turning on the light, meaning to navigate the familiar room in near darkness. But his quarters were not empty.

"Major McKenzie," he exclaimed, attempting to sound less startled than he was. "Did we have an appointment I've forgotten?"

McKenzie, who had been sitting on his bunk, rose slowly to her feet.

He could barely see her in the dark room, but there was something demonstratively sinuous about the movement.

"Major McKenzie," she parroted back in a low voice. "You know, I really need to push for another promotion. I hate alliterating."

"I suppose Lieutenant Colonel McKenzie is a little better," Malcolm replied racking his brain for why she might be in his quarters. "Although, you might find it easier to get demoted, if the alliteration is an urgent problem."

"So I should be bad, should I?"

 _What the hell?_

"Is there something I can help you with, Major? Why…. Why are you here?"

McKenzie walked softly towards him. She wasn't wearing shoes, he realised, or she could never have walked so quietly. "I am here, Lieutenant, because Travis Mayweather will not fuck me."

"Well, that's not really… and even if it were, I'm not Travis's supervisor, and also, Travis is hopelessly in love with Hoshi Sato…."

McKenzie was very close now. Close enough that he could make out her eyes narrowing questioningly. "And are _you_ hopelessly in love with Hoshi Sato?"

"Well, that's really not any of your…"

"What I'm asking, Lieutenant is will _YOU_ fuck me?"

"Will I…. Sorry, where is this coming from?"

McKenzie's body was making continuous small, serpentine motions, and it was making it a little hard to concentrate.

"Well, Travis won't fuck me," she purred. "And I've gotta fuck someone. And you seem like you have a lot of pent up energy. So?"

Malcolm exhaled slowly, very much wishing he'd turned on the light after all. The darkness wasn't helping. "Well… I… no. I don't think so. I mean…I'm flattered, obviously. And you are… very attractive, obviously. But I can barely manage a professional working relationship with the MACOs as it is, because I can't stand any of you, or anything you stand for, and I really think complicating things further would be…"

"You think too much," McKenzie purred.

"Maybe so, but… that's my answer. So thank you, but… good day. I mean… good night. I mean… would you stop swaying like that please?"

McKenzie did not stop swaying, and in fact closed the short distance between them and swayed right up against his…

"Okay, that's it. Get out," Malcolm stammered, side stepping away from her. "I'm out of politeness. It was never a deep well, and now it's dry so… out you go."

"I'll wear you down, you know," she cooed, even as she left.

* * *

She did. It took her a week.

After a bad day, half way through their pointless trek to Vulcan….

After a series of small malfunctions…..

After an increasingly cranky Archer dressing him down over nothing….

After seeing Hoshi and Travis making out passionately in the mess hall,

After all of that…

She was waiting in his quarters, and she threw him rudely against the bulkhead, grasping aggressively at his waistband.

He protested for a minute…

… maybe two…

… and then didn't anymore.

She had her forearm pressed into his throat, just a bit too hard to really be playful, and it hurt. And he was tired. He kissed her.

She crowed, aloud, in delight. She pulled his clothes off him roughly, knocking some books over as she did.

In a saner moment he would have stopped to rescue them.

Then she pushed him roughly onto the bed, a process in which he interjected only so far as to not hit his head.

Then she climbed on top of him, but she'd undressed only so much as was strictly necessarily, and something about that riled him into some sort of resentful passion.

It was frenzied and vicious, and felt great and terrible and like nothing. His roughness seemed to hurt him more than it hurt her, and whenever she climaxed she tore into the skin on his back with her fingernails.

"Might scar," she said unrepentantly. "You're gonna have to explain those to someone, someday."

Malcolm sighed. "I'm not sure I could."

But it wasn't the last time.

There were _dozens_ of last times.

There was _never_ a last time.

* * *

"So, what do you think?"

Malcolm scanned Archer's face carefully. If this was a set-up it was certainly a bizarre one.

"What do I think about the theory that T'Pol is misappropriating Enterprise's resources to become a flower entrepreneur on Vulcan?" Malcolm replied slowly, waiting for the punchline. None presented itself. "ARE there even entrepreneurs on Vulcan? Do they even HAVE money? Don't they just produce and distribute resources through the power of pure, logical pomposity?"

Archer shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I agree that it seems ridiculous, but at the same time, don't you think there's something peculiar about this whole thing? You can speak freely…"

"Well, it does seem a little peculiar that you agreed to let her bring the bloody flowers all the way to Vulcan…"

"…but not about my command decisions. What's your theory then? What's T'Pol up to?"

Malcolm shrugged. "Well, I don't know sir…"

"Speculate."

"Well," Malcolm continued carefully. "I think we both know that T'Pol has certain connections in the Vulcan Intelligence community. Maybe these flowers have some sort of military applications. That could explain why T'Pol is so reluctant to explain the significance she sees in them."

"Military applications? Of flowers?"

"Well, biochemical applications, presumably," Malcolm clarified, feeling irritated and more than a little foolish. "With all due respect, sir, why don't you just demand she explain? You _ARE_ the captain, after all?"

Archer frowned. "That will be all, Lieutenant."

It took Malcolm a worrying amount of effort to leave calmly. In fact, it wasn't until hours later, when he was showering McKenzie's scent off his body that he finally felt calm.

* * *

Malcolm had really rather expected this meeting to be the end of the flower nonsense. In fact, he had given some thought to how he might best respond should the Vulcan scientists attempt to detain T'Pol for involuntary psychological treatment. But, to his shock, the other Vulcans were all crowded around the table cooing over the flower like a collection of talcum-powdered maiden great-aunts cooing over a newborn. He'd be worried for his sanity if he didn't have an equally befuddled Archer to lock eyes with.

"You will ensure the other specimens are delivered?" the chief scientist asked T'Pol, his voice a half octave higher than it had been at the beginning of the meeting.

"I will have the other 25 plants delivered to your institute," T'Pol confirmed, sounding slightly distressed. "You will take, care of them?"

Malcolm frowned. "Excuse me, Commander. Did you say the other 26? Weren't 29 plants collected?"

" Two plants will be remaining on Enterprise," T'Pol replied coldly. "With me."

The other Vulcans nodded with stoically at her words, as if they could not have expected otherwise.

It might have been Malcolm's imagination, but he thought he saw Archer pale slightly.

"May we look at the DNA sequence, again, Commander T'Pol?" one of the younger Vulcans asked. "It is most… stimulating."

T'Pol smiled indulgently and pulled the sequence she had shown earlier back onto the display. Several of the Vulcans gasped, one sighed, and yet another's eyes moistened.

"What IS it?" Malcolm asked the nearest Vulcan in irritation. "I don't see it?"

"Do you not?" the Vulcan replied turning to him in consternation. "Can you not see?"

"No!" Malcolm snapped. "See what?"

The Vulcan turned back to the display as if he could bear to look away no longer. But he did answer. "It is _IDIC_."


	5. Archer

_**Archer**_

The wound both hurt and didn't hurt. It was agonising, and then it was lost in the gathering grey and his mind started to wander to further off things. There was a beach, yes, and a soft golden sky, but also death and squalor and the sort of grim drudgery that destroyed the soul.

It was getting harder to pull himself back to the room, to the pain, to his murderer standing over him. And each time he was less and less sure he wanted to come back. He was dying. He had seconds. And there was no use spending those seconds here.

But even as the world darkened he could still see them. Red and Yellow behind his eyes.

The flowers. The _goddamn_ flowers.

* * *

Watching Paola Estrada walk away, Archer squeezed the memo from the science directorate a little harder, and tapped it absently on his other hand.

Paola hadn't been his first port of call. He'd questioned a reasonable portion of T'Pol's staff, and Phlox for good measure, in increasingly less general terms. Paola had been his last chance, not his first. The last chance to uncover some sort of quirk of methodology in alien exobotany which he might use to defend T'Pol.

Instead Paola had been the least equivocal yet, and he was left with little choice but direct confrontation.

He would later wonder why he had staged this confrontation in his quarters. It was indefensible in retrospect, but at the time he had hoped to make things seem less formal, less disciplinary.

"T'Pol, there have been questions," he'd started, when she arrived in his quarters, somehow more intoxicating than ever. "And my science isn't strong enough to defend you, so I need your help. I need something to tell them."

T'Pol took the offered memo and examined it with an offbeat aloofness, then she offered the strangest expression Archer had ever seen on her face, a small half-smile.

"Earth's science directorate has never been pleased that a Vulcan is chief of science on the flagship. They are petty, conservative xenophobes, whatever their pretentions to enlightenment. They have never understood the Vulcan perspective. It is too sophisticated for Earth philosophies."

Archer relaxed a little then. _If that was all this was…._

But he was not quite finished. "The thing is, T'Pol, I've also spoken to some of your staff, and they also…"

"Who?"

Archer frowned. "Paola Estrada, for one…"

T'Pol sighed. "I'm afraid, Captain, that I have managed Ensign Estrada poorly. She has unrequited feelings of attraction for me, and my efforts to manage that situation may have been counterproductive. I would not go so far as to accuse her of being vindictive, but her objectivity with respect to me has likely been compromised. A situation which is as much my fault as hers. "

"Unrequited feelings of attraction?"

T'Pol nodded with another strange, small smile. "A situation you may have some empathy for perhaps?"

Archer exhaled hard in spite of himself. "T'Pol…"

"You should not, though," she continued softly. "For the situations are not similar. Particularly with respect to reciprocation."

"T'Pol…"

" You are trying to help me," she said, stepping closer. "Please do not think I do not see that. Do not appreciate the steps you are taking on my behalf. Such **camaraderie** , such _loyalty_ , demands reward."

The kiss was gentle, at first nearly chaste, but it shot painfully through Archers senses anyway. Years of forlorn, repressed affection broke like a wave and he was all but in tears when he protested. That he was her captain, that Trip was his best friend, that…

"Stop," she demanded. The gentle pressure of her fingertips on his forehead should not have been enough to prevent him moving away, but somehow even looking away was impossible. He was trying - he thought he was trying - but his flight dissipated as if it had never been. Instead he touched her and was lost.

It was like no other encounter he'd ever had, before or after. It was like it occurred out of time. She was beautiful yes, her body lithe, her skin smooth, but it was barely about her at all. She was hardly there. It was just him somehow, engulfed in his own despair, a riptide of his own mortality. He was on the very brink of being lost to madness, a howling cataclysm, maybe hell itself.

He had not long to live now, and he'd never sleep well again.

* * *

If it were not for an equally incredulous Malcolm Reed on the other side of the room, Archer might have thought he had hallucinated the meeting. He'd had faith that T'Pol had been on to something with these plants and she'd been so confident that her Vulcan peers would support her and he couldn't remember ever seeing such confidence from her misplaced. And yet, even then he'd not expected the reaction he'd just seen.

"Did that really happen?" he mused to Malcolm, hearing a tightness in his voice.

"So it would seem," Malcolm replied thoughtfully. "I was wrong about the biochemical weapon thing, I think. It seems like more of a _religious_ thing. No wonder it was so inexplicable."

Archer sighed. "Would it have bothered you if we'd been helping Vulcan develop a biochemical weapon by coming here?"

"I'm not sure, sir." Malcolm replied with atypical candidness. "I mean, for anyone _else,_ it certainly would have bothered me, but if there's anyone we could trust with advanced weaponry surely it's the Vulcans. And, I suppose I trusted T'Pol. She's far more humane than I, after all. And I suppose I was right to."

"No more quips about flower deliveries?"

Malcolm shook his head. "No. I guess if it was a religious thing, then that falls under the umbrella of diplomacy. And all diplomacy is a little bit ridiculous. You _expect_ it to be ridiculous. But it is important."

Archer nodded, but sensed that Malcolm was still holding something back. "But…?"

Malcolm said nothing for a long time, but after crossing his arms continued carefully. "But… I just heard one of the scientists making a call, a moment ago. To the Sebreck facility. A contentious phone call."

"What's the Sebrek facility?"

"It's an agricultural facility, it grows 4% of Vulcan's food crops."

Archer blinked. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"It sounded like the scientist was instructing the facility to prepare to cultivate this flower. And it sounded like the foreman at the facility was having none of it.

"Well, the scientists are certainly enthused," Archer agreed. "I'm not really following why it bothers you though."

Malcolm shrugged. "I don't know sir. I just have the strangest feeling that the scientist is going to take one of the plants there and the foreman is going to suddenly change his mind."

* * *

It was that conversation which was running through Archers head as he marched down to T'Pol's quarters. A small part of him was furious with Malcolm. It was much easier to take comfort in platitudes like "Who could have foreseen this?" when your tactical officer had not literally foreseen this. And told him so.

"Have you seen this?" he shouted when she opened the door. He already knew she had.

T'Pol nodded. "I have. It is regrettable." No regret showed upon her face.

"Famine on Vulcan! _Famine_ , T'Pol!"

She nodded. "It is a concern. Vulcan has always been marginal with respect to food production. It is possible that we allowed our population to grow to large, forgetting that we might someday need to turn food production resources to more important tasks."

"More important?" Archer breathed. "T'Pol? People could die!"

T'Pol raised an eyebrow. "No one will die, Captain. Andoria is shipping its excess food supply to Vulcan. Their food is distasteful, but it should be adequately nutritious. "

"And how long can you expect Andoria to keep sending you food, because you've filled your agricultural facilities with flowers?"

T'Pol shrugged. "Vulcan has plenty of better allies than Andoria. Earth also produces a food surplus and your facilities are far from peak efficiency."

"T'Pol, listen to me, you aren't making any sense! Uproot the damn flowers and plant some food crops! Neither Andoria, nor Earth, nor Tellar is going to put up with this madness indefinitely."

T'Pol stepped away from him then. Towards it. The goddamn flower. She gently caressed it's petals. "You are being emotional captain. The plants are scared. They matter more than the mere necessities of the flesh. Was it not written in one of your own holy books that man cannot live by bread alone?"

"The thing about the necessities of the flesh is that they are necessary, T'Pol," Archer seethed. "And unless Vulcan takes serious steps to revert its agricultural facilities to food production I am going to recommend that Earth does not provide any food reserves…"

"You are embarrassing yourself, Captain. We both know that Earth will not allow Vulcan children to starve. For any reason. Or any Vulcans for that matter. You NEED us. You are nothing without us. If we require that you turn over your fertile pasture to produce food for Vulcan you will do so. Vulcan needs the Surak Flowers and Earth needs Vulcan."

"Surak flowers?" Archer sneered in sudden disgust. "Oh that's… those flowers don't have anything do to with Surak. OR the _Kir'Shara_. OR _IDIC_. They are just fucking flowers, T'Pol. And I swear I won't rest until I get rid of every one of them and restore you all to your goddamn senses!"

The pot smashed on the ground and the stem split with the turn of Archer's heel.

T'Pol was still. For nearly a minute she barely moved.

Then she snatched up a long ceramic shard and thrust the full length into Archer's chest.


	6. Phlox

_**Phlox**_

As a young man, drawn to medicine, Phlox had worried. He'd worried about making mistakes that cost lives. Faith in himself had got him as far as medical school where his training had been cold comfort. You will make mistakes that kill people, his instructors said. But you will save more than you kill, and you will kill fewer than the recruit that would take your place would. And if _that_ 's not true, then that's our fault, not yours.

And yet now, as an old man, Phlox was faced with the truth that his mistake had killed half the quadrant. He might find the hand of a higher power in the fact that he'd just proved it to himself today, the very day that Romulan forces would annex Denobula. The day he could expect to die, one way or another.

It danced before him, on the display, the software helpfully rotating it, so he could see it from all sides. A novel bioactive agent. A molecule produced by a single species of plant that grew in a remote gully on a distant, uninhabited planet, that Enterprise had stumbled across. Evolution was sometimes a strange thing.

Perhaps there was no way he could have known. No way to know the strange effect it would have on the right hemisphere of the neocortex. No way to know that Vulcans would be particularly susceptible. No way to know how the fall of Vulcan would cause a chain reaction, destabilising alpha quadrant species one after the other, with the Romulan Empire expanding in chaos's wake.

But if there was no way to know, then why did he finally isolate the agent this day? Why else would some higher power allow him to live to see the face of his unconscious enemy, but not a day longer. Surely coincidence was not so cruel.

"You are dead, my colleagues," he said, raising a glass to those long ago instructors. "There is no one left but me."

He took a sip.

"You are dead, my friends" he said, raising a glass to his shipmates from Enterprise.

He took another.

The poison would work far faster than the one displayed on his monitor.

But it would kill only one.


End file.
